EVA Sessions: Burn the Sky
by Gob Hobblin
Summary: A boy is called to his father's side, a director on a secret military project in Osea during a period of general tension between the two great superpowers of Earth. Great things will be demanded of him, great powers will seek to control him, and great questions will task him.
1. The Lady Officer

The boy stared at the note on the table, with the twenty-dollar bill next to it. _Late again,_ it said, _Very sorry. Pizza on us._ A phone number sat under the words, for the closest pizzeria. The boy stared at the note, the twelfth this month. He glanced into the kitchen, then back down at the note. Another night cooking for one…and another twenty-dollar bill pocketed. He had a small collection going,

It was a little after 6, and he had just gotten home. He spent two hours after school every day, one hour private lessons on the cello and one hour private lessons in pencil drawing. It was busy work, the kind of thing a kid was made to do after school to keep them occupied. He refused to go to college prep courses, and had no interest in athletics. So…the cello and art. And some other things, here and there…

He turned on the television in the kitchen, and began channel-surfing. News, sports, more news, bad movie, somewhat bad movie…amusing movie, but not in the mood for it now. Cartoons. He lingered a moment. This particular show was meant for little girls…but the tone and humor was well above their age group, one of those shows that tried to appeal to parents sitting down with their kids. It's biggest fan-base, in fact, was college age kids. He see-sawed, for a bare moment, on the guilty-pleasure show. He would _never_ admit having it on to any of his friends, but the back and forth patter of the female voices was soothing. It didn't matter what they spoke about…it just made it sound like someone was in the house.

The boy put down the controller, and pulled a skillet from out of one of the bottom cupboards. He scrounged through the fridge…his guardians, when they could be bothered to cook, were epicureans, and had a decent taste when it came to food. He had a wide range of ingredients to choose from, and pulled out a thawed pound of ground beef, some squash, zucchini, onion, bell peppers…tomato paste…what else was there? Milk, can't forget that…mozzarella, can't forget that either, _Sapin_ mozzarella nonetheless…

He pawed through the ingredients for a bit, and satisfied he had found enough items, lined them up on the island. He raided the spice cabinet for more items, fetched two cutting boards, a few bowels, some knives, a whisk…throw it together and see what came out.

The boy never cooked with recipes. He knew recipes, read them when he could, but for the most part he would just wing it. He had that rare talent for looking at a pile of raw food items, and have the sense to plan and plot them together into larger and more delicious meals. It was just a talent…a gift.

The process was purposed, but not mechanical. He moved with the sense of knowing where he was going, without really knowing what the result would be. He set the oven for 400 degrees, and pan-cooked the hamburger with some chopped onions and garlic, as well as enough tomato paste and salt to give it some flavor. He boiled some noodles, and placed another skillet down for more onions and the rest of the veggies. He then placed yet _another_ pot down for milk, tomato paste, a few other items to get a good sauce going. He stirred each item, letting them cook in their own time and losing himself in the process of managing the various ingredients. He drained the grease from the hamburger into a jar he kept under the sink, saving up excess oil and grease to dispose of in a proper manner. He drained the water from the noodles into the sink, spritzed them with some olive oil. Stirred the veggies, stirred the sauce, fetched a small baking pan, put down the veggies, the noddles, and the meat. He stirred them together, soaked them in the sauce, and layered a healthy amount of cheese on top of it. The oven dinged ready, and he put the whole mess in for twenty-five minutes.

No sooner had he done that when the doorbell rang. He turned off the television and walked cautiously to the front door. He peered through the peephole, and saw violet hair (_violet, really_) and a blue uniform. He stepped back, confused. The doorbell rang again. He opened it, and there stood a very pretty woman (gorgeous, really) in a blue skirt and blue jacket of an officer in the Air Defense Force. She had a briefcase in one hand, and her cap in the other. She wasn't wearing makeup, but didn't seem to need any. She was probably the most striking woman Shinji had ever met, and he swallowed nervously.

"Hello," she said in a sweet voice, "My name is Misato Katsuargi, I'm a Captain in the Air Defense Force. I'm looking for Shinji Ikari."

* * *

There was an old saying that those who did not do, taught. It could be adjusted, in this case, to say that those who did not fly did scut work. Well…it wasn't _exactly _scut work, but given the choice between flying a supersonic aircraft versus looking for a teenage kid, a fighter pilot had an easy decision to make.

If the fighter pilot in question could no longer _fly_, however, she had to do whatever else she was told to do. Needs of the service and all that. Which was why Misato Katuragi had found herself in Lt. Col. Cody Pucifer's office at McNealy Air Force Base, looking at a picture of a girl. Except that it wasn't a girl, it was a boy, if the adjacent information was to be believed. He _looked_ like a girl…

"That's the son of Dr. Gendo Ikari, the Director-in-Chief of the Nerve Program based at Basset Space Center," the executive officer was saying. "We've received a request that someone retrieve him, and bring him to his father. And yours was the first name that came to mind." The thin man smiled coolly, and Misato gave him an ugly look. One did not give ugly looks to the XO of a major unit. That was a blasphemy just shy of kicking a prophet in the groin. Pucifer's grin became a toothy one, however, and Misato turned red.

"The hell is this?…sir!" she snapped, not loudly but testily. "What do you mean _my name came to mind_? Are you trying to say something about my abilities? Just come out and say it."

The officer held up a placating hand. "Katsuragi, don't skin me just yet." He reached across the table and took the folder from her, and flipped through a few pages. "See this memorandum? It's a request for a new flight officer to oversee parts of the Nerv Program's experimental aircraft division. They'd like an officer with a pay-grade of at least O-4 to manage it. Someone with extensive flight experience, I might add."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Keep going."

"Touchy, aren't we?" he chided, but he understood. Ever since that little accident and the oh-so-invasive surgery that followed, Misato Katsuragi had been grounded. She was one of their up-and-coming pilots, and had a long and fruitful career ahead of her if not for that little problem. She _was_ testy, and touchy, and generally bristly to everyone in the command section of McNealy that she had to work with. She could also be charming, witty, intelligent, and a riot in the officer's club. She didn't know it, but Pucifer (and in no small part Col. Amy Whitten, _his_ immediate superior) had shielded Katsuragi from the consequences her greater excesses could bring, knowing they still had a good officer to use if they could just shake her of this bitterness over flying.

He flipped over the memorandum, and behind it was a set of orders. Misato looked at them, and felt her jaw drop without intending it to. "Dependent on reporting…immediate promotion…what…_what_!? Sir, I don't…understand this…" She picked up the orders with two fingers as though it was a dead thing she had just discovered in her sink.

"Upon reporting to Basset Space Center, you, Capt. Katsuragi, will be immediately promoted to the permanent rank of Major. You will oversee all of our ADF attachments there, and most likely also head the entire ground security team as well. And if the presence at that facility expands, expect your rank to grow appropriate. You could be _Lt. Col_. Katsuragi in as little as two years with this posting."

"Eh…I…no, no, _no_! The military doesn't work like that! Does it?" She seemed very flustered, and Pucifer hid his amusement behind a wan smile.

"All right, here's the deal: promotion in the ADF goes to those who fly, right? Sure, you can be a talented officer and see a long and fruitful career heading up a group of technical squadrons, managing a base, managing a base defense wing, but in the end, it's the pilots that get the rewards and reap the benefits, right?"

"Well, _yeah_, but…"

"And you've been moping…and let's be fair, it's been a little bit more than that…about not being able to fly anymore. You have a permanent profile, you're grounded until they can be convinced your heart won't stop beating at excess G-stress. Frankly, unless you pick another branch, your career is stalled, and even if you _do_ find that branch…you won't be as promotable as someone who did that job from the moment they commissioned."

"That's true, _but_…"

"_This_ posting, it looks like a scut posting, I know. Babysitting scientists and all that, but this is about as close to a dream job as you can get. You get to wear civilian clothing, be paid at an O-4 pay grade, accrue time in active service, and possibly see a jump to O-5, because it will be easier to promote you than find someone else to do the job you'll be posted with. Your career can continue, and grow…through this. And you can have a little fun doing it, too. This is the big time, whether it looks like it or not. It's not as flashy as dogfighting over the Pacific, but this will open doors for you. Maybe even stars…if you stay with us that long."

Misato's mouth was working like a landed fish's, and her teeth clicked each time her mouth closed. "Uh…" she finally managed. "Um…well…" She looked at her hands, folded now in her lap. She shrugged. "Um…okay, yeah. _Yeah_. I see your point."

"Of course you do. You're smart, and you know when the XO tells you you have a good deal, you have a good deal." Pucifer smiled, and Misato smiled back, nervously.

"Maj. Katsuragi," she said, bobbing her head with the syllables.

"Gold oak leaves will look good on your shoulder," Pucifer said.

"Lt. _Col._ Katsuragi," she said, a little bolder.

"All right, tiger, don't get ahead of yourself," Pucifer said. "I'll get a flight scheduled for you to go get this kid, pick him up, _give him this_," he tossed a heavy envelope into her lap, and she squeaked trying to catch it, "and take him to his pop. Remember, it's not actually at Bassett itself, there's a test field about forty miles north on the other side of the Riddlebacks. That's where you'll go. Keep your MIB card handy, they'll have you in the system by the time you arrive."

"Actually, I think I'll drive out," Misato suggested.

"Drive? The kid's in Bana City, that's on the other side of the country."

"It's only a twenty-hour drive," Misato said.

"Twenty-hours if you drive a hundred-and-ten the whole way there without stopping to sleep," Pucifer said in disbelief.

Misato shrugged. "See? Twenty hours."

"Plane tickets," he began, and she waved him off.

"Sir, I'll drive and stop at a hotel. I swear. No speeding, no reckless endangerment of myself or someone else's minor. Nice and slow granny driving the whole way. I just want to have some time to process this. I mean, I have a week, right?"

"Yeah, a week before you have to report in," he confirmed, checking the orders.

"Easy. I can go and be packed now, have my trunks mailed to Basset. They'll get there when I do. Perfect. Right?" She gave him a winning smile, and he grumbled, defeated. "Fine. Fine, be off with you. No reckless driving, no _speeding_…"

"Scout's honor, sir," she beamed. And she did as she said…for the most part. She did speed a _little_ in there, but when you had a red, sporty little two door, how could you _not_ speed? She took I-10 along the Southern Coast, passing Basset Space Center proper, with it's massive rail gun complex glimmering in the sun. Several times on her trip, the road weaved south towards the Pacific Ocean, allowing her a beautiful view of the ocean for most of the trip. She stopped a few times for gas and coffee energy-drinks, and once for a four hour catnap.

She made it to Bana City at around 1500 the next day, checked into a hotel, showered, napped, and got back into her uniform to go see Shinji and his guardians the (the Rokubungis) at 1800. She found the house at 1824, parked, and rang the doorbell. She stood feeling twitchy after so long without a good, solid rest, and rang the doorbell again. A teenage boy in blue jeans and a t-shirt answered the door.

The boy looked at her with owl-eyes. He was so _skinny_, practically petite. Meeting him in person, Misato assumed he would look more masculine, since all she had was a head shot from a school photo. No dice…if anything, he seemed more feminine. Misato pushed that thought down and smiled at him. "Hello. My name is Misato Katsuargi, I'm a Captain in the Air Defense Force. I'm looking for Shinji Ikari," she said politely. He looked at her, and her uniform, and seemed caught between saying one thing or another.

"If it helps you decide what to say, I know you happen to _be_ Shinji Ikari," she said sweetly. He blinked at that, and seemed unsure as to what to say next.

"Uh…yeah, that's me," he finally managed, crossing his arms.

"Are your guardians in?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry, why are you here?" he asked.

"I've been given instructions to take you to your father," she said. At the word 'father,' his face went blank, and Misato had the feeling she had said something wrong. He stiffened, and looked back behind him as if searching for a path of escape.

"Why?" he asked. The question caught Misato off guard, and she frowned. There was something she was missing in this conversation.

"I…don't know, actually. I was simply told to pick you up and bring you to Basset Space Center. He's the director of an important aeronautical program there, who works in close conjunction with the military. That's part of the reason why I'm here." He nodded, and looked down, his eyes focused on her shoes. She was wearing a skirt with her uniform, and in any other boy she would assume he was staring at her legs, but his gaze seemed unfocused and wooden. She began to feel uncomfortable herself, as the silence stretched on, standing there on the porch.

"I should…come back. I can leave some contact information, when you're guardians come back…"

"They're not coming back tonight," Shinji said flatly. "Well, not till late, anyway. They're always busy." It was an odd answer, and caught Misato off-guard.

"Oh," she said, cocking her head. "That's fine. I can go, if I need to…"

Something rebelled in Shinji, and he felt that he himself had done something wrong. "I was cooking myself some dinner. Would you like to stay and have some?" It seemed the appropriate thing to say.

Misato's eyebrows quirked. The tone and the feel of the question was purely innocent, but as a fourteen-year-old boy, Shinji had to know that, one, it was not smart to invite stranger's into the home, and two, it was especially out of pocket for a teenage boy to invite an older woman into his home. He seemed ignorant of both points, and something rang a warning bell in Misato's mind. Not a warning of danger…merely of damage. Misato had a crummy childhood growing up, and she had a bloodhound's nose for detecting when things were off in others.

Against her instincts, she nodded and said, "That'd be fine. Thanks." She followed him in, and examined the house. It was large and spacious, if not overly luxurious. She had seen that his guardians were engineering professors at Bana City University, and had made a good amount of their extra-income through consultative work. She saw a dining room table in view of the door, and walked over to it, dropping her cap and briefcase on the surface.

"It'll be about twenty more minutes," he said, "In the meantime…you said…you said my _father_ wanted to see me?"

"Yes, he did," Misato said, still smiling. She fished the folder out of the briefcase, and laid it on the table. "I have a permission form, proof of identity, proof of request, a whole bunch of legal stuff in there. Oh, yeah…" She pulled out a large envelope. "This, too. It's addressed to you." She slid it across the table, and his hand flicked out and stopped it with surprising grace. She blinked. It seemed a very natural and unhurried gesture, and yet swift and smooth in a way that seemed…almost animal like…

She shook her head, and began opening the folder and pulling out legal forms. "This'll be fun for a kid like you, believe me. You'll be on the Basset Space Center's Rainbow Flat Airfield. Lots of jet fighters, experimental craft, it'll be hog heaven for a boy." She looked up, and he was holding the envelope carefully, not quite listening to her.

"I mean, yeah, you'll miss your friends and all, but…"

"I don't have any friends," he mumbled, one of his thumbs caressing the envelope in thought. She blinked in surprise.

"What…no friends? That can't be true."

"No, it is," he mumbled. "This is my father's handwriting."

Misato studied the boy, and decided her instincts had proved correct. This kid had some serious issues rattling around in his head. "If it's his handwriting, it must mean he wants you to open it," she said, smiling.

Shinji made a face, and tore open the side of the envelope. He pulled out a boxy electronic item with headphones, a few pamphlets, a written note, and a MIB card. "Hmm," Misato said, cocking her head. "That's an S-DAT player. I thought they stopped making those," she murmured. She picked up the MIB card, and saw that it had Shinji's face on it, printed over from the same picture she had in her possession. Someone was wasting no time in prepping this kid.

It then occurred to her that whoever it was…herself included, really…had made a lot of assumptions that this kid would up and go when she showed up. There was nothing saying he had to, she pondered. She smiled, though, and decided to continue being warm and friendly. The kid was frosty, but he looked so miserable that Misato couldn't help it. She sympathized with him…a lot.

"This is a Military Identification Badge," she said. "Usually, dependents get a different ID. This is the full deal. That's pretty cool, right?"

"Maybe…" he mumbled. She cocked her head to the side, and he realized she was looking at him. He glanced up at her, then hid his face, blushing. He didn't like being scrutinized like that. Fortunately, the oven rang, meaning that his dinner was ready. "I have to get that," he said, disappearing into the kitchen. He returned later with two plates, and matching knives and forks. He retreated again, and came out with a hot pan and spatula. Whatever it was smelled very…_very_ good. Considering that Misato had lived on fast-food for the past two days, her stomach rumbled in curiosity.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Just…something I made," he said, smiling nervously. He seemed more comfortable, just a bit. He scooped out a serving for Misato, showing he had some understanding of manners, at least, then served himself. "Would you like anything to drink?"

She fought the instinct to say beer, and said, "Water, or soda, if you have any."

"Orange soda," he said. "Is that okay?"

"Orange soda it is," she said with a brilliant smile. He blushed again, and this time Misato felt a little pleased with herself. Not that she should go around making boys blush, of course, but it was nice to know that she _could_.

He returned with two glasses, and they ate. He opened up a little during the dinner, but he went from being sullen and evasive to being wide-eyed and curious. If he didn't ask questions, his body language implied them. Misato talked about her career flying F-15s and F-16s for the ADF, and against his attempts to be distant, Shinji couldn't help but lean forward and listen. Misato was a natural storyteller, and had a fighter pilot's talent for embellishment. She was in the middle of a particular heated mock-dogfight, discussing how she and her wingman were about to one up a pair from the 145th Squadron (because they were _jerks_, plain and simple) when the door opened and Prof. Griffin Rokubungi and his wife, Dr. Ilsa Rokubungi, stepped through. They spotted Misato, and Shinji, and both seemed at a loss for what to say.

"Good evening, sir…ma'am," Misato said, smoothly rising and taking charge of the situation. "My name is Capt. Misato Katsuragi. I'm actually here in an official capacity, if you can believe that. I apologize for intruding like this, but I need to speak to you in regards to Shinji."

"Um…that's fine, that's fine," Griffin mumbled, taking his coat off. His wife, a Belkan who had immigrated to Osea, still seemed unsure of what to say. It wasn't often one came home to find a military officer in the house.

Shinji watched the adults talking, and felt that he had somehow made the situation awkward. Perhaps it shouldn't have invited Misato in…he felt a little embarrassed, now, but Misato was navigating the situation with well enough. She was an assertive woman, and it was hard not to be drawn in by her.

"So, Miss…I mean, Capt. Katsuragi… you're from Ugellas, originally?" Ilsa was asking, trying to be polite.

"No, actually. My grandparents on both sides are, but my parents are native-born Oseans. From the Yamato community in Oured," she explained. "Before Ulysses, if that's what you're wondering."

"Ah," he said. Anything that followed seemed to phase out of the boy's awareness, as he stared at the MIB card. He shuffled through the pamphlets…a lot of things about Basset Space Center, Rainbow Flats Airfield…touristy crap. He looked at the note:

_Shinji,_

_You're presence is requested at Basset Space Center at your earliest convenience._

_-Your father,_

_Gendo Ikari_

The letter felt like an afterthought, scribbled on paper and shoved into an envelope. There, have at it and be done. Shinji's fingers worked nervously, and he tried to picture his father. He had vague memories, nothing firm or fixed enough for him to understand.

"What do _you_ say, Shinji?" Griffin asked. The boy looked at him, surprised.

"What?" he asked.

"About…leaving. Going to your father? What do you say?" Ilsa asked gently. He looked at her, and then Griffin, and back at the S-DAT. His uncle and aunt were not bad people, and they had raised him as they best knew how. They were a busy people, however, and never had time for him. They knew nothing about raising kids, and generally wanted to see what his thoughts and feelings were on things before deciding for themselves. He had the feeling he wouldn't be missed if he left.

"I haven't seen him since I was four…" he mumbled. That didn't seem to be the confirmation they were looking for, so he said, "Okay. Okay. I'm…sure. Sure. Why not?" He exhibited some nervous energy with that. Misato leaned forward.

"Are you sure, Shinji?"

He blinked, looking at Misato. She was smiling gently at him, waiting patiently. He swallowed, feeling bashful, and shrugged. "Why not? I mean…it might be good for me, right?" It was a weak excuse, but he seemed more on the side of going than not.

"Good. Good," she smiled. Misato and his guardians discussed the mechanics of leaving, which should be sooner rather than later. They could pack his possessions in some boxes and have it shipped out to the base as soon as possible, whereas if Shinji was ready to go, they could leave tomorrow. Anything concerning his school could be handled via the Federal Office in Bana City. He tuned them out, tracing circles on the note with his fingertips.

Why…did his father want to see him? Why the S-DAT…Shinji didn't know, and something about that frightened him.

* * *

**Notes from GobHobblin**: I try not to give long author's notes, and I prefer to explain things in the story as much as possible, but there are some points I wanted to address that won't actually appear in this fic. Basically, there are things to be said about the character of Misato Katsuragi. She is a great character, very strong, but also with serious failings in her assigned role as guardian of Shinji Ikari. She had a distinct fear of interacting with others, or at least allowing herself to slip into something more than a shallow and easy-to-leave relationship. Her instability and failure to act as a guardian figure to Shinji is one of the key plot points of Evangelion, which led to a whole slew of character breakdowns and arguably Third Impact. That's not saying it's Misato's fault: it is, however, one of the many points when the path to destruction could have been averted, and was not.

Why is Misato seemingly stable here? Simple: Misato was not involved in Second Impact (which in this case was the fall of Ulysses1994XF04), and her own flight accident. Clearly the larger portion of her neuroses stemmed from Second Impact in the original series. As for the accident, parallel to her physical rehabilitation, the ADF (being patterned on the US Air Force, or at least a very high-functioning, slightly idealized version of it) would have also sent her through a slew of counselors. Generally, this is something a member of the military cannot be forced to do, but in this version of Strangereal, as an Osean pilot, Misato was required as part of her recuperation after the crash. As she is around 26 in this continuity (which is about the age a very talented First Lieutenant could expect to be a Captain, hence her shock at the possibility of being a Major so quickly…) and already has a support network in upper officers and some NCOs who are eager to see her career progress…which is what proper officers and NCOs should do. Combined with the intense counseling following her crash, a lot of personal issues were brought to light and addressed. Not fixed, but at least acknowledged, and given a chance to air out and be noted. And do note, she still displays some key psychological injuries, inherent in irritability, mood swings, inappropriate emotional reactions at certain times…take the talk with Lt. Col. Pucifer. Even in a joking context, you never get angry and snap at a Lieutenant-Colonel. Which also demonstrates how patient her superiors are, for that matter…


	2. Coffee in the Palace

Rainbow Flats was actually three different geographical locations: the first being the lower portion of the great plains north of the of the Riddleback Mountains, the second being the airfield posted there, and the third being the town that existed within the grounds of the airfield. It was not a large town, but it had a respectable population, all of which was devoted to the maintenance of the field or supporting said population with amenities and service. It was well-known for the Crystal Palace, the nickname given to Mitchell Business Park, the three central office buildings which the thinkers and planners of Osea's air defense, air development, and space flight operations met and worked. It was known as the Crystal Palace for the obvious reason, all three structures being of blindingly reflected glass exteriors. It had another nickname, though, and that was the Graveyard, on account that the buildings never really shut down.

It was why, at 2000, a meeting was beginning among several of the most important names in the military aircraft apparatus of the ADF. Two generals, three colonels, and several civilians, all with above-top-secret clearance, sitting in a comfortable conference room and enjoying a late-night snack of coffee and biscuits. On the wall was a projected image of an aircraft that they had all come to discuss. It looked like a needle, with forward swept wings and massive engine nacelles. It was supposedly the next answer in fighter-superiority, and it was called Morgan.

"The groundwork for the ADFX-02 is actually based on a combination of flight characteristics, but the most important ones come from the MiG-31 Firefox," Dr. Kozo Fuyutsuki said, flicking a slide over to a delta-winged craft that no one in the room had ever seen before.

"The MiG-31 is classified as Foxhound," . Beth Kaplan corrected.

"It is now…there was actually an aircraft intended to fill that role, but considering it's ignominious career, they reused the name for the next nominal aircraft in their production line."

"Why use design characteristics from a failed aircraft?" Cyprian Kipling, the chief of Research-and-Development with the munitions division of Lockheed, asked. Kozo glanced from his boss, Gendo Ikari, to the representative of Osea's intelligence community, a portly man from a Yuktobanian-Osean family named Lucas Byalarsk. He nodded, and stood, circling to the design.

"The MiG-31 was originally two individual aircraft termed Firefox, a high performance air-superiority fighter with stealth capability, a flight ceiling of 20,000 meters, a range of 3,000 miles…and a top speed clocked at Mach 5," he said.

"A Yuktobanian, single-seat fighter that was capable of Mach 5 flight? In the Seventies?" one of the civilians said, shocked.

"We proved it with seismic sensors, from a low-altitude test flight. We confirmed that little boast ourselves. That wasn't the most remarkable thing about the beast, though." Byalarsk waited with the patience of a master storyteller, making sure his audience was watching. "The Firefox used a first-generation form of brain-impulse technology in the flight helmet. Based upon pre-programmed electrical impulses recorded in the flight computer, the Firefox could deduce when a pilot 'thought' a missile launch, and do just that. Shave two to three seconds off of reaction time, that did."

"A…thought-operated response system? Bull," the other general, . Richter Vaas, murmured.

"Bull that was true, as far as we are concerned. Because that bull has made it into the Morgan," Kozo answered.

"I don't get it. Looking at this…super-fighter…why weren't we flooded with fleets of the things? Why not reorient their entire fighter production capability to producing a couple dozen squadrons of these fighters?" Kipling asked.

Byalarsk shrugged. "It was an issue of too advanced, too early. The Yuktobanian economy has always been quantity over quality, so the fact that it produced _anything_ like Firefox was…impressive to say the least. Especially in terms of its thought-impulse combat computer. It's primitive now, of course, but we still have trouble replicating _exactly_ what it was that made that system so effective. Even the Yukes have had trouble, and they built the damn thing."

"Except, of course, for the Morgan…"

"The point is," Byalarsk said, bringing the conversation back, "They couldn't produce it in large quantity, especially after Operation Twinkle-Eye."

"Twinkle-Eye?"

"The reason you all have your security clearances for this meeting," Byalarsk said, smiling ruefully. "One of our dirty little secrets. There were only two Firefox aircraft produced, and that was at an airfield built expressly for the aircraft to be housed at. One of them crashed, at sea due to a mechanical failure, pushing for Mach 6. At that speed, there's not wreckage left, there's particles. As nasty as you can picture it. That's when we became aware of the aircraft, after piecing two and two together from some interesting tidbits in our spy networks in the Republics. We were able to track some of the test flights for the remaining one, and that impressed us enough to formulate Twinkle-Eye.

"In essence, it was a joint-op between a single Special Forces Alpha Team and a group of anti-government partisans which smashed the facility, destroyed the remaining Firefox, stole what wasn't nailed down…and killed anyone who could replicate the technology."

"Jesus," someone murmured.

"The Yukes didn't declare war over that?" That was Gen. Kaplan, her voice quiet.

"Why would they? Admit that they had a secret weapon? Admit that we _learned_ about it? To top it off, that would also require announcing that not only did we penetrate a team of operators into the very center of their country, but that members of their own population aided them in killing government personnel. It was a punch in the nose they had to deal with, and chalk up to the board. Besides, we simply insinuated that it had to do more with a tit-for-tat in the destruction of Gazco 9." Byalarsk crossed his arms and let _that_ sink in.

There was a buzz of conversation in the room, now. Gazco 9 was one of the greatest ecological, humanitarian, and economic disasters Osea had ever had to deal with, the destruction of one of the most profitable, heavily-occupied, and largest oil rigs in the Pacific. There was still oil slicks washing up from that tragedy. It was never once insinuated that it was an act of deliberate sabotage, but if Byalarsk just said the Yukes bombed it…then the Yukes bombed it.

"It created enough of a confusion over the issue, anyway. They comforted themselves in the idea that we didn't know what was there, and we got lucky. And truthfully, we did. The entire team made it back to friendly territory, with armfuls of research notes. They weren't of much use to us, until now, but we made do with what we could."

"You said they couldn't replicate it?"

"The research depended largely on three individuals, Dr. Pyotr Mushka, Dr. Ivan Strelneek, and Dr. Alexandra Pashna. All three of those individuals were targeted and successfully eliminated in Twinkle-Eye."

"It's taken us this long to figure out what we had," Kozo added. "And we aren't boasting when we say that our academics are head and shoulders above Yuke ones. Those three were once in a lifetime geniuses, and they just happened to get together. Our own technology has finally caught up enough to _mimic_ what they did."

"I don't think I enjoy sitting here, listening about all the skeletons Osea has stacked in her closet," Dr. Oscar Julian said. He was a top aeronautical engineer, and was squeamish about hearing how others like him were killed for being too smart and on the wrong side of the line.

"Who would? The point is, we have their golden apples, and it gave us Morgan," Kozo said.

"So…the Morgan is built using technology that is forty years old, but still too advanced for us to understand? That's amazing." Gen. Vaas shook his head.

"Amazing and unfortunate," Byalarsk muttered, "The Firefox killed one pilot, and that wasn't just anyone…we have reason to believe it was Lt. Col. Alexei Bogudin, and that should tickle your ears right there." The intelligence man saw the lost look on one of the defense contractors faces, and leaned over. "Their best pilot _too date_. Part of their cosmonaut corps, top test pilot, an ace with laurels…he was a rock star. And that plane ensured there weren't even enough pieces left to bury in a paper cup."

"That had less to do with the design than with an attempt to maneuver at high speed, I imagine," Kipling said thoughtfully. "You said it was mechanical failure, right? Something they didn't anticipate?"

"From what we can tell, there were safety features in place to prevent the plane from trying to _over_-maneuver in multi-Mach flight. Some of those features failed, and he went from a level flight path to a ninety degree tilt at five times the sound barrier, and approaching six. It was a nasty end," Kozo murmured.

"What prevents Morgan from suffering a similar fate?" someone asked.

"Well, the engines…" Kozo clicked back to the slide of the Morgan, and pointed to the two over-sized barrels at the rear, "Are independently mobile. Thrust vectoring, which gives it more maneuverability overall, even at high speed. The design itself has been adjusted down to the inch. We can only attain Mach 4 with this design," Kozo paused to allow a scoff of disbelief at _only_ achieving Mach 4, "But this aircraft could probably spin through the air like a top at that speed and expect to come out without too much of a problem."

"I don't believe that," someone chuckled.

"Believe it. We did it with the ADFX-o1, and that was only Mach 2. Granted, it was an advanced drone, built as a testbed for this aircraft. It is very limited in what it can and cannot do, but maneuverability is not one of those things. We had it flying backwards at one point, on momentum alone." Kozo smiled, flicking over to a slide which cued up a chase-aircraft video, demonstrating the flight of the Falken test-craft. The way it flew drew gasps and muttering from the audience. They weren't seeing flight…they were seeing black magic. Some of them still believed what they saw to be impossible, that it had to be rendered imagery.

Kipling was not one of them, but he brought up a point of concern as soon as the video ended.

"This aircraft…which is _radical_ in its design, to say the least…is dependent upon someone being able to pilot it. Aside from its predecessor, I see nothing to indicate this is a drone, or automatically piloted aircraft."

"No, we anticipate this being a manually piloted aircraft," Kozo replied.

"Fine, let's…" Kipling muttered. "Let's…assume it has the flight characteristics you're looking for…that it can maneuver in the way you say that it can…that it can maneuver like the Falken. Unless you have some magic bullet to lessen the strain of G-force at that speed, you have just designed a plane that, when turning, can shut down a pilot's organs, if not cause their blood to boil right through their skin!"

"We have a specialized G-suit designed specifically to prevent that kind of occurrence," Kozo countered, "We're calling it a Plug Suit, for now. Combined with a new style crash helmet, the suit itself would allow the pilot to…_jack in_, so to speak, and fly this aircraft with a combination of manual piloting controls, neural impulses from the brain, and sympathetic resonance from the surface of the skin, the nervous system…they'd be one with the aircraft, in essence. The Plug Suit will not only keep a pilot alive and conscious at multi-Mach maneuvering, it will also give them the control of the aircraft necessary to be successful during that maneuvering."

"That's all fine," Dr. Julian said, "But what about the _pilot themselves_? I've had a chance to go over your cockpit design. It's small…I know it _has_ to be small in order to design the aircraft as you did, but…well, in order to fly it, you'd have to have a horse jockey. Someone small enough to fit into that aircraft."

"A child could," Gendo murmured. It was the first thing he had said in the meeting, and all eyes turned to him. There was a silence, palpable and visceral, at his words, partly from hearing him actually speak, and partly from what he had said.

"You…have to be out of your mind." Kipling gasped. He knew it wasn't a joke: he knew Dr. Gendo Ikari too well for that.

"A specially trained, specially prepared child, with the proper physical therapy and support network, could fly this aircraft, and fly it well," Gendo said. "And we don't anticipate sending them into combat, yes? This is only the first model of Morgan aircraft. If we can have a child run this plane through the paces, and possibly work them up to test pilot status, we can begin producing an aircraft of equivalent maneuvering capability that a healthy adult could fly."

That was a patently insane thing to say. Test pilots were not _just_ pilots: they were an elite. They had to push aircraft well past the breaking point, often times losing their lives in the process, in order to produce the kind of aircraft that wouldn't kill the rest of the folks asked to fly them. If anything, combat might be _safer_ for a child than being a test pilot. Everyone was too stunned to speak, but Kipling managed to ask an incredulously-toned question. "And do you have a…candidate?"

"We have one such child," Byalarsk said, "Possibly another. And I know the Belkans also have one, for what it's worth."

"The Belkans? How do you…what…?" Kipling was lost.

"The Belkans have…despite their amicable agreement _not_ to rearm, lest we pound them into dust again…set up a _sister_ program to the Nerv Project. The Seele Initiative, I believe," Byalarsk said, rubbing his neck. "We've made overtures to them to…share their findings with us in a manner conducive to international relations and the shared welfare of the Osean Continent."

"You threatened them to pony up," Gen. Kaplan said, her petite features conveying amusement. "Oh, I bet they _loved_ that."

"Chancellor Keele was less than enthusiastic," Byalarsk admitted. "He called it international thuggery at it's worst. We told him that carpet bombing your own territory with nuclear weapons earns that sort of 'thuggery.' He clammed up a bit at that."

"Clammed up, nothing. That old buzzard's biding his time," Gen. Vaas grimaced, chewing on a fingernail. "If anyone had the ability to destroy the world, I'd say it'd be Keele. They ought to call him 'Ulysses in Waiting.'"

"Gently, Richter," Gen. Kaplan said, "Gently."

"Regardless, we are in the process of moving the lion's share of the Seele Initiative to this country, and this project," Gendo said. "I will be frank: you all know the situation with Yuktobania. You know how dangerous things can become, how we are all throwing ourselves into weapons design and weapons research. We are playing chess with devices that don't exist yet, but as soon as one of us thinks there is an advantage, or a slip…there will be war. That is a fact." He pointed at the blank slide, where Morgan had once sat projected.

"This weapon will not push over the mountain, but it will give us an edge against our enemies when the time comes. That is also a fact. In the long run, a few children are not a great price to pay for the millions of lives spared. Can we agree on that?" No one answered him…but no one disagreed, either.

* * *

"Why not mention the LCL? Why go straight to the children?" Kozo asked, studying the airfield through the window. It's lights winked bright, easily seen from the darkened office. In the back, Gendo sat next to the mini-bar, helping himself to a drink. Kozo already had one in hand, a small luxury after a long day.

"They would have found out about the children eventually," Gendo said, swirling an ice cube around his glass. "It's better to address it and get it out of the way."

"And they all agreed," Kozo said wistfully, shaking his head. "We're going to burn for this, one way or another." Gendo studied the older man's back, quiet and musing. Perhaps they would. That's what you risked in weapons development. Weapons development and more…there were other things at stake, well beyond the trivial implications of a major conflict, even one between two superpowers. Greater things, and the Nerv Project was at the center in a way profound and dangerous. Not many knew that…but Kozo did. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

"It seems a lot of trouble just to build a single aircraft," Kozo murmured, changing the topic in his mind. "Especially one we can't mass produce."

"That's what happens when you have a limited amount of nuclear material that can be compiled to weapons grade quality," Gendo said. "If there were more materials in quantity to produce stockpiles, then it might be different. As it is, we have to rely on the next big weapon to affect and shape our strategies. We could go the normal route…build something big and scary. A small, hyper-advanced aircraft with total domination of its airspace is just as effective. Even more so."

"As long as it can be piloted," Kozo chided.

"If this works, then we won't have to rely on children to pilot these aircraft. Just a single step, Kozo…one step after another after another."

"Do you really believe that?"

Gendo smiled in the dark. "No, not really. These children are most likely going to be at the tip of the spear, especially if things between us and Yuktobania degrade anymore."

"And they will degrade," Kozo said. "We're not on a powder keg yet, but we're filling it. Wars have begun over a lot less than what we have right now with the Yukes. A lot less. Do you honestly believe that, when it came down to it, the ADF would hold a weapon like the Morgan back?"

"Of course not. We top the Yukes in technology and training, but they top us in sheer numbers. And they have some gutsy pilots, too. It would be an ugly war, without the threat of invasion, either." That was as close to a straight answer as Kozo would get. Gendo had more or less announced his willingness to allow children into harm's way. Kozo said no more on the matter.

"Kozo," Gendo said, his voice flat.

"Yes?"

"Would you call me an evil man?" The question surprised Kozo. If there was any man he knew who was beyond the questions associated with good or evil, it would be Gendo Ikari. Ever since his wife passed away, he had been more like a machine than a human being, existing only for his research.

"I'd say you were an amoral man…but that doesn't make you evil." He cocked his head. "Are you having a sudden crisis of conscience concerning the boy?"

Gendo said nothing, but continued to swirl the melting ice.

* * *

**Notes from GobHobblin**: I have made three major adjustments to Strangereal's fiction: the first being the spacing of the Morgan and Falken aircraft (in this case, I've made the Falken the experimental design predating Morgan), the flight capabilities of the Morgan, and the country of origin (Belka to Osea).

We've also moved into magic physics, here. Planes cannot do what I have described the Morgan being able to do, obviously, and that has little to do with design and more to do with physics. Any aircraft attempting to deviate from a forward flight path of that speed, especially considering the shape of a high speed aircraft (designed to go forwards and not sideways), and you get what happened to our fictional Firefox up there (good book, great movie, by the way). We can argue that the fictional Morgan (if you look at the Ace Wiki for a picture) is so shaved down in its fuselage profile that it could, theoretically, behave in said manner. It couldn't…but we'll say that it can…for many reasons yet to be revealed (cue ominous music).

That also bears a lot on the pilot. While high g-stress wouldn't have exactly the same affects I described, in all fairness I was probably _understating_ what could happen to a human body in an aircraft maneuvering like that at Mach 4. There's a reason drone aircraft are starting to become more popular; wear and tear on human bodies is only one of them. That being said, we can assume that due to Gendo Ikari being a mad scientific genius, and _other factors_, the Morgan can in fact pull this off…with the right kind of pilot. There were a lot of things not said at this meeting…


	3. Those Chance Discoveries

It was two in the morning, and Shinji was still awake. He had packed enough things for a week in a single backpack and a single duffel bag, and the rest of his possessions were to be boxed and mailed to him. Misato had assured him she could wait for as long as necessary to help him get everything packed, but he was adamant on leaving in the morning; give him a week, and he might back out.

He was already regretting that decision now, sitting at his desk in boxers and a t-shirt. He was scrolling along the Internet, looking for anything on his father. He had a long and fruitful career without Shinji. Big name in the aeronautical community, long career with the Osean Air Defense Force Technology Development Bureau. Pictures of him observing the clean-up operations in the wake of the Second Impact, in Usea. Something something about…biology? That was weird…

No, there it was, an article he wrote on biology, co-authored with his wife…Dr. Yui Ikari…

Shinji's hand hovered above the mouse. He regretted this, but didn't want to leave the page. He didn't really have memories of his mother, she had passed when he was one. Still, there was that lingering blankness, the absence of something that was acute and painful.

He thought about his aunt and uncle. They were kind, but not loving. It wasn't their fault, they had never anticipated having children. They hadn't raised him, simply taken over when his grandmother passed away. They had tried…but they weren't parents.

What did it mean to have a mother? He stared at his mother's delicate features, wondered what she was like. What had he missed in life by not having her?

The picture offered no answers. He grumbled, rubbing his eyes. He needed sleep, but he couldn't sleep. He felt that little knot in his gut that told him he was heading into unknown territory. He did not take change easily, and the decision to go with the lady officer to see his father was…he couldn't understand why he had made the decision, honestly. He just did.

It was then that he had the distinct feeling he was being watched. It was a strange sensation, one that crept through his fingers and limbs, leaving a cool chill in his skin. Shinji turned, and gazed out of the window, not entirely of his own accord.

There, on the street, was a girl. She stood very still, in the dark…her hair seemed white, or gray…maybe blue. It was hard to tell in the dim light. She was staring at him…staring through him…

* * *

"Shinji? Shinji, the Captain is here." It was Ilsa's voice, and someone was patting him on the back.

Shinji snorked, his eyes popping open. He had left a thin layer of drool across the table-surface, gluing his face down. He had fallen asleep at the computer after…after…something. Something he couldn't remember.

"N…n'time is it?"

"It's eight in the morning…when she said she would get here," Ilsa replied. "I'll tell her you're getting dressed." Shinji wiped his face with his arm, staring at his computer. His mother gazed back, still flickering on his monitor.

He swallowed, looking back into his room. He needed to get dressed…and remember…

What? What had he forgotten? Most likely, it wasn't important…

* * *

As they wove through late morning Bana City traffic, with the sun on their back, Misato didn't _exactly_ bubble about the move…but she was pretty darn close to it. Shinji leaned against the window, listening quietly as she tried to convince him how cool an opportunity it was for a boy his age to move to an airbase.

"I mean, think about it," she said, slow but excited, "You're right next to the Space Center, so you'll get to see some launches off of the Rail Gun. Not far from McNealy, either, so we'll have some flyovers and stopovers from interceptor squadrons. Did you know that the Hop-Mice fly out of Rainbow Flats?"

"The who?"

"The Hop-Mice. Uh…the 12th Special Research and Space Squadron. Astronauts in training, test pilots. They do a lot of work with the Pegasus Squadron." Shinji _had_ heard of the Pegasus Squadron. They were the ADF's premiere flight group, showcasing tricks and fancy flying at air shows across the country and the world over. They were rivals with the Maritime's Blue Jackets, and the Marine Corps' Griffin Wing. He remembered seeing all three squadrons fly when he was seven, at a special air event over Bana City. It had been something that was a year in the planning, all three groups working closely to pull off wing-sized maneuvers. It was one of those memories a boy never forgot.

"That's…that's kind of cool," he said, a little louder. "Why are they called the Hop-Mice?"

"Their squadron logo. They use a kangaroo mouse as the mascot. A hop-mouse," Misato said, taking a hand off the wheel to pop it in the air, mimicking the motion of a kangaroo mouse.

"Are they part of the ADF?" Shinji asked.

"No…well…kind of. They come from all services, as well as a few from the civilian side. They're _technically_ commissioned in the ADF, but all of them are considered non-combatants. They have two jobs, and two jobs only: test flying, and going up into space. You might get to meet them." Misato cocked an eyebrow at him. "Bet you I could pull some strings and get you up in the back seat of one of their planes. How awesome would _that_ be?"

Shinji smiled shyly, starting to get interested in his changing circumstances. "I don't know…maybe, like, 2o% more awesome," he said quietly.

Misato stared at him, a weird look on her face. "Did…did you just make a _MLP_ reference?"

"What? No. _No._ What's…what's that?" Shinji said, backpedaling. There were few things worse in life for a teenage boy than letting something like _that_ slip in front of an older, attractive woman, and Shinji could think of none of those things right now.

"Oh, my God, you so totally _did_! You watch that show!"

"No, I don't! Seriously, I-I don't!" He was trying to be firm and assertive on this point, but ended up sounding childish and pitiful. Misato paid him no heed, actually _gushing_ over the discovery. It was such a change in personality from the friendly-yet-professional officer that he didn't know what to do or say.

"Hey, there's no shame in it! I know I couple of _tech sergeants_ that are all over that show. I even met a Marine NCO who watched it with his daughter. He could draw an _awesome_ Twilight Sparkle, always doodled them on notes to his girl. I got him to do nose art for my plane, but I was grounded before I could get it painted. Got it framed, instead."

The fact that Misato recognized the reference registered, as did her talk about nose art. "Y…You watch that show? Why?"

"One, because I'm a girl, and two, because it's _awesome_. You are _so_ totally a closet brony, aren't you?"

"No! There's no…ponies in my…closet." _Never thought I'd say _that.

"Hey, you can deny it all you want. I know a brony when I see one. You're a brony-in-denial, and that is a sad and shameful thing," Misato said, smugly _and_ triumphantly at the same time.

Shinji's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, save for small clicks at the back of his throat as he tried…and failed…to form words. "I…no!" he manged, "No! No, no, no, no, I don't…watch that show!"

"Lies, all lies. You have that look."

"What…what look? What look? There's a look?" It was like being caught in a dream where you were stuck on stage in your underwear, and _everyone was looking…_

"The brony-closet look. Who's your favorite? You have one, right? I bet it's Fluttershy. You are a total Fluttershy kind of guy."

"Please let's not talk about this anymore…" he murmured, beet red.

"See? Total…Fluttershy…response." She poked his shoulder with each word, to emphasize it. "To a _T_. Me? I'm a Rainbow Dash lady. She's my girl."

Shinji sighed miserably, resigned to the fact that he had been tricked into a car with an apparent lunatic, and his first meeting with his father in as long as he could remember - already an emotional mess of a situation - would be punctuated with anxiety over being declared a fan of a girl's cartoon show. "Are…are you going to do this the whole way?" he mumbled, as meek as door mouse.

"Oh, hells yes," Misato chirped. "I want to see if you can melt glass with that blush of yours. If I make it there and don't have a tan on this side," she ran a finger down her right cheek, "Then I'm going to be disappointed. I'll have to get a big Fluttershy poster for you, and put it on your door, with rubber cement. Force the shame out of you."

Misato grinned at the boy, and saw how miserable he really looked. She felt bad, then: she was used to cutting people down, and throwing their dirty laundry in their faces. Usually, though…they cut right back. She had been humbled plenty of times, and she liked that kind of give and take. Shinji seemed unprepared for it…worse, he seemed to think she was _serious_ about half the things she had said.

She quirked her mouth, and said, "You're a pretty cool kid, Shinji. Just so you know…I don't josh people I don't like."

There's something in the heart of a boy about to enter manhood that craves validation. The kind of thing that assures him he is doing all right, that he might just make it as a good man. Thus, hearing praise from an older person…but not _too_ old…

It did wonders for the self-worth. His blush faded slightly, and he shrugged. "Thanks…I guess." It was uncertain…but mostly sincere.

"Still a brony, though," Misato murmured.

"Shut up, please!" Shinji sighed.

* * *

"Teamster 12, Teamster 12…This is Terrorbird Leader, coming up on your ten o'clock high. Can you see us yet, over?" Capt. Hewitt Baird scanned the blue in front of him. Faintly, so faint it could barely be seen, was a small speck that was the Hawkeye radar plane. Two more specks would be off to the rear, it's escorting F-18s from the _Peregrine_. Hewitt had seen them on his on-board radar well before his trained eye picked that speck from the blue-on-blue of the sky over the waters of the south Pacific. He had no doubt that Teamster had seen his and his wingman's F-16s well before _he_ saw _them_.

"Terrorbird Leader, this is Teamster 12. You're a bit early, aren't you?" the female voice chided.

"Had a late take-off, Teamster," he said sheepishly. "We had to burn it out to try and make our time hack."

"Terrorbird, this Escort Leader," a male voice cut in, "No complaints from me…anything you do to save the MDF some cash, we're okay with."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Escort Leader. Teamster 12, are you ready for a switch out?"

The Hawkeye's comm officer replied, "It sounds like our escort is thinking about a solid deck under their feet. It's a shame they're just a bunch of chicken-hawks that don't want to keep an eye on poor, little me."

Hewitt laughed as Escort Leader cut out an indignant reply. It wasn't professional, this bantering, but it was inevitable. The sky-eyes and their escorts knew each other well, and you tended to joke on the job…especially when your job could be mind-numbing. The supersonic equivalent of watching paint dry. Not even supersonic, really…the Hawkeye was a prop plane.

It was larger now, it's outline silhouetted against the hazy white of aerial moisture gathering above the ocean. "All right, let's make the switch. Teamster, Terrorbird Flight re-designating Escort Flight."

"Escort Flight, falling back, re-designating to Kingfisher Flight. She's all your, landlubbers."

"Safe flight back, Kingfisher," Hewitt replied.

"Many thanks." The lead F-18 waggled it's wings before peeling off. "Have a boring watch, Escort." It was the kind of praise that Hewitt detested, but did truly appreciate. The fighter pilot in him _wanted_ something interesting to happen on his flight. The officer, though, knew that anything happening would most likely be the first step in a war. The only kid on the block wanting to pick a fight with Osea was Yuktobania, so that would be a well and truly awful war. Unlike most captains in the ADF, Hewitt was not a young man. He had commissioned later in life, and would be just as happy to hang up his spurs with no medals to his name. He liked to fly, and that about covered it. He would fight, and fight well when the time came…but he wasn't overly eager to. Big wars meant big body counts, especially for pilots.

"Escort Leader, this is Teamster 12," the lady officer called, "I'm getting something witchy from my radar section."

"Define 'witchy,' Teamster," he replied.

"One moment…patching you through to Radar," she called. There was a shuffle of static, a click and beep, and a younger man's voice called up.

"Escort Leader, this Teamster's Radar, are you receiving?"

"Roger, Radar. What's up?"

"Contacts to the south and west, bearing undetermined. It's not an image I've seen before, and it's skipping all over." That didn't sound good.

"Copy that, is it…a _solid_ contact?"

"No, Escort Leader, that's the problem. It's fading in and out of coverage…this doesn't look like mechanical failure, and it's not a stealth signature." The thing about stealth aircraft was that they were stealthy - not invisible. They could be hard to detect on radar, and downright near impossible to see in certain conditions, but they were still solid objects. They could be found, with a good enough radar array and a sharp enough tech at the board. Still, it bothered Hewitt. To his knowledge, the Yukes fielded no stealth aircraft. If it was new, it might explain the fact it wasn't holding up to a normal signature. Still…

"Any theories, Radar?" he asked.

"We might have an inchworm," the radar tech said, "Though it's not like any I've seen." An inchworm was Maritime-slang for a pilot who flew low and slow, barely above the surface of the water. Doing so could sometimes baffle radar signatures, especially on stormy days when it was difficult to determine a contact form a high wave. Today was fairly calm…but the theory was still sound.

"I see. Do we need to investigate, Radar?"

"One moment, Escort Leader," the man said, and the line beeped again. The lady officer returned.

"Stick close, Escort Leader. We're just going to keep an eye on this, and see what…" someone began shouting, and Hewitt's own panel began beeping. Three bright and juicy contacts, marked UNKNOWN on his radar, had peeled up and were screeching towards them. Very fast. "Three contacts, bearing 201 degrees, south by southwest, advancing at 756 knots…we have been painted. Repeat, we are being targeted."

Those contacts were flying at just over Mach 1…and they had targeted his escort. "Escort Leader to Escort 2…Kip-Up, arm your birds."

"Weapons armed, boss," his wingman said.

The biggest advance in aerial warfare was actual a combination of two advances. There was constancy to aerial warfare in the world, and every nation, large and small, engaged in it to one degree or another. Fighters practically choked the skies in such wars, and the need to keep them up there was critical. A plane could burn through all of its missiles and still have bogeys to engage. They could do so with on-board machine guns and auto-cannon, which were, truth be told, very important to have even today. The problem was, trying to shoot down a supersonic fighter with a machine gun was much like trying to swat a fly with a pistol. It could be done, but it wasn't very likely.

This saw the birth of the short-missile, or mini-m as it was called in the Defense Forces. Roughly the length of a man's arm at the largest, it was designed to allow a fighter aircraft a much higher payload in launch munitions than the average missile could provide. They had a shorter flight distance, of course, and a smaller explosive warhead. Really, however, all you needed to do was to force your opponent to stop fighting you. Blowing holes in his tail was just as good as vaporising his aircraft. Even up-armored aircraft, sacrificing maneuverability and speed for durability, could fall pray to the small and dogged missiles, and two were usually sufficient to bring a plane down.

The mini-m was a perfect device to allow the development of the second advancement, which were parasite boxes. These devices were attached to the hardpoints of a fighter much like a missile or fuel tank. Designed in such a way as not to impede dogfighting ability, they could increase a fighter's payload twice over, and be ejected when empty. Hewitt had two, which gave him forty missiles to lob. Combined with his four dedicated air-to-air 'plane killers,' he was ready for a fight. It could be a grueling fight; the simple electronic brains of the mini-ms could only allow for a single solid lock at a time, lest they be confused. He still had munitions to spare, though.

One target popped up, and locked true and ready. It glowed red, and sang, and he and Kip-Up rocketed past Teamster 12, interposing themselves between the advancing unknowns and their escort. "Target tone," Kip-Up said, sounding cool and detached…Hewitt envied the man that. "Ready for launch, boss?"

"Hold off, they haven't fired," Hewitt said. Right now, Teamster would be sending out warning bells, everything from ordering the craft to break off to squelching their comm feeds with static and buzzing. Hewitt bit his lip. Teamster 12 was the flight leader, technically…but he was the escort commander. If he felt that this was a threat, he had every right to engage over the objections of Teamster 12. The thing was, it was a funny thing trying to launch missiles that you knew could start a war…

Just like that, the three contacts peeled away, turning due south and burning out like their lives depended on it. They had gone from just over Mach 1 to pushing Mach 2, easily. "Boss," his wingman said, "They're bugging. Do we pursue?"

"Negative, Kip-Up. We escort Teamster, and report what we saw," he said without hesitating, lingering to be sure that the unidentified aircraft were well and truly on their way. He couldn't make out their shape from this distance, but they were black and angular, like three small needles piercing the sky. They had gotten close enough to launch missiles…_could_ have launched missiles, and most likely splashed Teamster 12 before her escort could act. He grimaced under his mask, and led Kip-Up back to the Hawkeye.

"Teamster, this is Escort Leader. How you holding up?"

"Rattled, Escort, but we'll manage. My flight commander says thanks," she said.

"Tell him no worries, it's what we get the paycheck for. Let's hope the rest of the flight is a little less eventful," he said. Thankfully, it was…for what it was worth.

* * *

**Notes from GobHobblin**: Okay, I might, I might, I _might_…havebecomeabrony, not sure how it happened, still trying to piece the details together…it's all a little vague. Either way, special thanks to gorgeousshutin for being a sounding board on the scene in the car.

I felt compelled to explain why in the video games, you were often overstocked on large quantities of missiles. Real aerial combat doesn't require much more than what aircraft are already loaded with: consider the modern F-16 (one of the best, if not _the_ best, multirole fighter in the world). It can carry roughly six air-to-air missiles in a decent load-out. The basic flight formation used is a four man formation, so that's 24 missiles, all of which can be fired at targets well beyond visual range. Jets are expensive to maintain and put up, so anytime there's a 'dogfight,' it's usually between these 2 to 4 man formations: 24 missiles is more than enough.

In the world of Strangereal, however, more government expenditures are focused on aircraft and conventional arms (and superweapons) because of the lack of weaponizable, radiological materials: nuclear weapons are rare. As a result, we can have these hypothetical scenarios where dogfights are between groups of twenty to fifty craft are economically feasible. All the money that would have gone to strategic missile reserves (which are _expensive_) instead go to funding large air forces and conventional militaries. In a situation like that, either more missiles are required, or teamwork has to be honed to a scale that humans simply aren't capable of practicing at supersonic flight. Ergo…more missiles.


	4. Getting to Know You

**Notes from GobHobblin**: I forgot to answer your question last time, Kaze (sheepish shrug). Yeah, this is just before the events of AC5, with some slight deviations.

* * *

By the time they stopped for lunch, Shinji was exhausted. Misato had chattered almost non-stop from the morning until time for gas and a bite, and Shinji's head was swimming. She had a musical voice, and seemed to never have a shortage of things to talk about, but even the most interesting of storytellers could be too much. "…I never did find out why he was covered in shaving cream, but I find it's best not to ask why the Infantry does anything in its free time!" Misato said cheerily, pulling up to a pump. She parked the car and turned it off. Rummaging in a purse, she plucked a twenty out and plopped it into Shinji's hand.

"Go in and grab a hot-dog and three Poisons, please. Low-carb, m'kay?" she said, happily. "Get yourself whatever you want with the change!"

Shinji looked at the twenty that had been thrust into his hand, and nodded. He exited the car, and went to buy the items. He got himself a hot dog as well, plus a soda. The Poisons were three purple-bottled energy drinks with fangs drawn around the logo. It looked less like a drink and more like a bottle of industrial chemicals. _She drinks this_?

He bought the food, and carried the food out to the car. "Did you get mustard?" she asked.

"You didn't ask for mustard," he said, surprised.

"A hotdog with no mustard just won't do. Go grab some," she said, popping one of the Poisons. He scurried back into the gas station, and returned with some packets. Misato drowned her hotdog in mustard, and popped open a Poison before starting the car up. Balancing her food in her lap, she pulled out as Sinji took a bite out of his own hotdog. As soon as the cap came off of the Poison, a distinct, sharp, almost fruity odor filled the cabin.

"So…is that stuff good?" Shinji asked, staring at the bottle.

"Here, try some," Misato offered. She handed him the bottle, and he stared at it, suspicious. He could see a glob of liquid on the rim…it was golden, and had far too many bubbles in that little glob to be mere carbonation. He took a sip, which turned into a long draw from the bottle. He had never tasted anything so sweet before, and he had gulped down a good mouthful before he could stop himself. He handed the bottle back, and Misato smiled. "Good stuff, right?"

Four minutes later, Shinji was wrapping up a rant that had gone at pace without so much as a breath.

"It's just that I've never met my dad before, really, never got so much as a letter from him before today, and now I get an old music player and a letter asking me to come, and I don't know what to think of that, but it doesn't really matter anyways because Uncle Griff and Aunt Ilsa aren't really unhappy to see me go, though I know they tried to take care of me, but they got their own things to do, and they don't know what to do with a kid, because kid's have needs, and I have needs, I just don't know what they are yet, but how am I supposed to know what they are because I'm only fourteen!"

"First energy drink, hmm?" she ventured as he stopped for breath.

"My face is vibrating, is that normal? That's normal, right?" He was scratching his chest. "And I feel sweaty. Why do I feel sweaty?"

"I'm very glad I only gave you a sip," Misato murmured, her eyes shining. "Breathe, and keep talking. You're on a roll."

"Don't know, can't talk anymore," he mumbled. Why was everything so bright? He wanted to ask Misato, but she was busy trying to suppress laughter, so he busied himself instead with counting all the dirt flakes on the window.

* * *

Shinji was shivering in his seat as they pulled into a motel parking lot. Misato sighed, examining him. He looked like one of those small, yappy dogs that always had panic attacks. "I don't feel very good," he mumbled.

"That's just the crash, calm down. Such a baby," she teased, tousling his hair.

"I felt that in my feet," he whined. Rolling her eyes, Misato exited the vehicle.

"I'm going to go rent some rooms. Just sit there and try not to…implode, or anything. I'll be right back, okay?" Shinji nodded, leaning against his circled the car, and let herself into the front office. She scanned the room, seeing an older man behind the desk. He raised his bushy eyebrows at her, and grunted. "Evening, Miss. Can I help?"

"Do you have two rooms for the night, preferably adjoined by a door?"

"Let me see, miss…" he murmured, tapping at his keyboard then fiddling with his mouse. "My daughter set this up for me, and I still can't figure this stupid thing out. Takes me forever, you know…there it is. Rooms 103 and 104. It'd be 150 a-piece without tax, but you have your uniform, so military discount…make it 110 for both."

"You are too kind," she said with a smile, handing him her military account card. "Did you serve?"

"Four years, enlisted, in the GDF," he said with a smile. "Best cook they ever had."

"Thank you for your service," she said with a giggle. "In all seriousness."

"Thank you for yours, miss," he said, running her card and handing her two keys.

"Are they any places nearby where I could get some dinner?" Misato asked, pocketing the keys.

"Lemme think…uh, if you want fast food, plenty, but we have a diner about three blocks down. If you exit the parking lot, turn left, and just keep going, you'll see a sign for Martha's. That's a good place, if you like good food."

"Sounds like my meal. Thank you," she said, taking the card back. She waited for her receipt, and exited the office, walking back to the car. Sliding into the driver's seat, she looked at Shinji. "Feeling hungry?"

"Maybe," he mumbled.

"Not nauseous?"

"No," he sighed.

"Good. Let's go get some food."

* * *

Misato drove Shinji over to Martha's, where they decided to split a platter of cheese fries and a small chocolate cream pie. Neither was really hungry, but junk food seemed the most appealing thing right now. She also got two milkshakes for both of them.

"Feeling better?" Misato asked. Shinji shrugged. "You should probably stay away from the energy drinks for the foreseeable future," she chided.

"How do you drink that stuff?" he asked.

"By the gallon, hon," she said, popping the cherry off of her milkshake. She stuck the stem in her mouth, and talked around it while trying to tie a knot with her tongue. "You'd be surprised by how unhealthy we in the uniform live. Comes with the job, you know."

"I guess. I just always thought of you guys…you know, being like athletes and stuff," Shinji mumbled, picking at a piece of pie in front of him.

"We are, or…most of us are. I know some overweight weight folks, and all. We just get asked to do a lot of stuff and don't have the benefit of time to do it. That's why there's a lot of smokers, lot of energy drinkers, lot of supplement fiends…stress relief."

"I can't see you being stressed…you're like…manic pixie sugar," he said.

"Flatterer," she chided. "I go back and forth. Sometimes, I can be a real grump. I'm just being friendly." She produced the stem, a knot in the center. "Ta-da! You try it."

"Um…" Shinji looked at the cherry, then back at Misato, her look a challenge. Gingerly picking the cherry up, he ate the fruit then began working at the stem. He wasn't sure what she did, and by the time he produced a half-chewed, broken, and very sad looking shadow of a stem, his tongue was sore and his jaw aching. Misato snickered.

"A valiant effort, young Ikari," she teased, taking the sad little thing from him and holding it up triumphantly. He smiled sheepishly, and shrugged.

"A for effort, right?"

"And an extra slice of pie," Misato said, pushing the half-pie between them towards him. Shinji smiled a little more openly. He didn't make friends easily, but something about Misato made it so hard to wall up. As it was in life, there were those who came along that were just a natural fit, the kind of person almost designed to push your buttons. That was Misato to Shinji. He didn't really understand it that way, of course, but it didn't really matter. They had milkshakes, cheese fries, and pie. That was far more important.

* * *

"Plan is, we'll drive all day tomorrow, spend one more night in a motel, then make it to the airfield at about mid-day. Sound good?" Shinji nodded, owl-eyed. "Good," Misato said cheerfully. They were in his room, the center door between their rooms open. She had already showered, and had changed into sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. "Now, if you need me, kick the door. Don't stay up too late watching cable or dirty movies." He blushed when she said that, and actually _winked_ at him. "Sleep tight," she sang, returning to her room and closing the door.

Shinji sat on his bed, pushing at the mattress and unsure of what to do. He should try to sleep, but didn't feel tired. He could try to watch television, but he wasn't interested. The thought of the S-DAT player crept into his brain, and he picked up his backpack and pulled it out. It was a boxy thing, a digital tape-player that was out of date roughly about the time it appeared. He turned it over, and looked at the ear phones. He put them on, and a strange combination of scents wafted with them, the smell of shampoo, aftershave, and dust. He pushed the PLAY button, not knowing what would pop up.

He didn't know the song, but it was in traditional Yamato language. It was sad, and soothing, and not what he expected his father to listen to. Then again, he had no idea what his father would have liked either way. He thought the singer sounded kind of like Misato, which was funny to him in a way, but not necessarily bad. It was like she was still in the room, and that was comforting. He looked at the door, wondering if he should knock on it and just see if he could leave it open. The inappropriateness of that lingered in his brain for a bare second, before he banished the thought. It was weird having someone engage him so much, and extremely pleasant. It was hard to believe, and he didn't want the contact to end. If anything, he just wanted to leave the door open as proof that it was there, and not a figment of his imagination.

The song ended, and another one began, by the same woman. He stood, pacing the room and listening to the music. Maybe he should draw…drawing was always a good way to empty his mind. If only he had some paper. He grumbled, pacing a little more widely and finally making it to the window, opening the curtains.

He looked out into the parking lot…and saw the girl with blue hair. He stared at her, and she stared back. He was surprised to see her again…and unable to look away. He stood at the window as the song wound down, and another began…

* * *

"You don't like beds, do you, hon?" Shinji opened his eyes, feeling someone rubbing his looked up, and saw Misato squatting next to him, already dressed in her uniform and ready for the day. He was on the floor, still in his clothes from last night. The headphones from the S-DAT were skewed on his head, one over his eye like an eye-patch.

"Um…ah." He sat up, surprised. "I didn't…mean to." He rubbed his face, feeling ridges on the skin where it had pressed into the carpet.

"Your hair is all slicked up on the side," Misato teased. "You look all uneven, now." He stood up, and looked at the mirror on the wall. The left side of his hair was indeed curling up towards the ceiling. He tried to flatten it…no success. He grumbled to himself, and Misato patted him on the back.

"Come on, hon. Grab your bags, and let's boogie." He made one last attempt to brush the hair down, and surrendered, fetching his items. As he did, he remembered, as though reaching through murky water, what he had last seen the night before. In the parking lot.

The girl…the girl with the blue hair…

* * *

Oscar Grumman was probably one of the younger Master Chief Petty Officers in the Maritime Defense Force, though young Petty Officers and above were not an unexpected sight in the Demolition and Acquisitions Group. He carried himself like an older man, and despite his small size, he was every inch a senior NCO. He scanned his operators in the bay of the CH-47, all of them in one-piece assault suits, combat vests, and streamlined helmets with lights, NOCs, and small cameras mounted. They looked unwieldy, but were quite light and comfortable, all things considered. Grumman's eyes fell on the man next to him, whose knees were bouncing up and down in a rapid fire manner.

"How you feeling, Cookie?" he asked their newest member, a freshly minted Petty Officer who was now out on his first mission. The man smiled, puppy-eager and excited. His beard was thick but well-trimmed and styled, his first badge of recognition as a DAG operator.

"Better than cooking, Boss," the young man said. Grumman smiled, and punched the man on the shoulder.

Traditionally, the most dangerous men on board an Osean naval vessel behind the Marine Security Detachments were traditionally the galley crew. In the age of sail, the galley crew, traditionally being the quartermaster and his subordinates, were responsbile for securing and watching the ship's stores, which included not only the food but weapons, ammunition, powder stores, and cargo. During boarding actions, when the rest of the crew and the Marine complement would cross over, the quartermaster and his crew were expected to stand and die with the ship if need be, to prevent her from falling into enemy hands. The tradition carried on into the age of steam and past it. Now, while galley crews still spent a good chunk of their time as cooks, they were also highly trained security experts, and ran their own patrols concurrent to the typical Marine Roving Patrol that any decent-sized ship possessed.

This also meant that a good chunk of the DAG's recruits were Cook's Apprentices and the like. It was the reason new recruits were called 'Cookie,' until they had a chance to earn a new nickname from their teams. It was often a disparaging or humiliating name, but all DAGs wore them like badges of honor. It meant they had made it.

"Blacklight, this is Mama Duck," the bored voice drolled in his ear. "Switch on your helmet cams at convenience."

"Roger, Mama Duck," Grumman said, and whistled. All eyes turned towards him. "Cameras!" he called, and in unison twenty-four hands went to their helmets, switching the cameras on. There were three special warfare groups within the Maritime Defense Force, and the DAG was the most enlisted-heavy among them. Known as the Sailor's Party, the DAG Teams senior-most leaders on the ground were always NCOs. Officers in DAG always operated from the rear, partially on the basis of officer tradition in the Navy (to remain with the ship, as it was the 'center of action'), but mostly on the purpose of management. A typical DAG team could see multiple theaters or areas of operation, and an officer (frequently a lieutenant) could be tasked with at least two, possibly four teams. He had to manage all of those teams, while trusting his NCOs to lead the effort from the front. Hence, the cameras on the helmets.

The Naval Forward Observation Units and Deep-Force Assault Teams eschewed that, with officers being as much a part of the teams as NCOs, but the DAG was the DAG. That was fine by Grumman's estimate. He liked being an NCO, and he liked being in charge. It was a good fit.

"Coming up on the target vessel," the pilot called, and Grumman called an affirmative. The target vessel was a 'research vessel,' about as large as a container ship but with an awkwardly arrayed superstructure. It had a helicopter landing pad at the stern, with a slide-off alcove (not a true hanger), in which the small aircraft could be stowed, when its rotors were folded back. That would be the insertion point, with the CH-47 hovering off the water as the DAG team spilled out of the back. Somewhere out there, two Seahawks were flying low, their miniguns scanning the surface of the vessel with orders to clean off any crew-members that might hinder boarding operations. As they approached, the lights of those helos flared up, announcing their presence and giving the CH-47 reference on where they were. Their own lights would be popping up now as well, to give the gunners an indicator of where _not_ to shoot.

They had been tracking it ever since tracing the flight paths of three unknown aircraft out this way. It had no known country of origin, no ship register…it was a mystery. The Osean military command didn't like that, and had sent the DAGs to ask questions in the way they knew how to best. And now, Roach Patrol was about to knock on the door.

Taking over positions over the vessel, the Seahawks began laying down streams of fire from their miniguns. He did not envy being the slugs on that container vessel. The GAU-17 was not so much a weapon as it was a hose, and those across the way were cycled to fire 2,000 rounds per minute. He could see the individual tracers, knowing that between each tracer was a line of almost invisible bullets nose to nose, chewing through the ship. He watched a rocket fire from the deck, spinning off into the air as its operator was torn to pieces. If there were any doubts about the innocence of its crew, that threw it right out the window.

"Blacklight Flight, this is Roach Patrol," the lead Seahawk called. "The upper deck is suppressed. Begin your insertion when ready."

"You ready, Terrier?" he asked, glancing back. 'Terrier' was Grumman's less-than-endearing nickname earned from his time in DAG. He and the pilot, CW4 Julian Baker, had flown multiple times together, and he was about the only one on this flight that could call Grumman anything other than 'Boss.'

"Take us in, nice and easy. All right, DAGs!" he called. "Check your weapons, watch your lanes, make it quick. Roach Patrol has cleaned up the top decks, lets take what's left and be done with it."

"Ten seconds, Terrier," the pilot called.

"Ten seconds!" he yelled.

"Ten seconds!" they operators chanted. They sat, tense and ready, watching as the rear ramp lowered and the roar of the rotors washed over them. They could see the landing pad drift under them, and the helicopter stabilized. It was a testament to Baker's skill that he could hover this bad bitch over a vessel at sea. The crew chief, a petty officer linked to a safety harness at the rear, near the ramp, flashed a thumbs up. They were ready. Grumman gave him a return thumbs up. Send them out.

"On your feet, killers!" the crew chief barked, his voice thundering even above the rotors. "Get off my chopper. Move, move, watch the deck!" Propelled out by his voice and under his watchful eye, the operators passed the crew chief and fell to the deck.

DAG teams were trained in a wide variety of surface-warfare actions that rivaled those of Marines. The Demolitions portion came from their talent as frogmen, sinking ships in port or under cover of darkness. This was the Acquisitions part, high-speed and low-profile attempts to board and detain vessels at sea. Considering their distance from port, they could still count on the heavy air support and call this 'low-profile.' Further considering there were to be no 'survivors' from this mission, the nomenclature still stood. It was the dirty secret of Acquisitions missions, that largely separated DAG from a Marine boarding complement. When DAG had to board a ship, it made that ship vanish, by any means necessary.

They pushed out of the vessel, dropping four feet to the deck and bolting, their weapons up and taking positions. The twenty-four men began to fan out through the vessel, and rifle fire punched through the air. The entire thing was over in less than fifteen minutes, and the DAGs went from assault to investigation. Grumman listened in as the bridge team reported that they had control, and were waiting further instructions.

"Orders, Mama Duck?" Grumman asked, clicking over to his mike. His signal would be projected to the CH-47, which would be bounced to a Hawkeye and back to the _Weasel_, the helicopter assault ship that had launched this little party. That faraway lieutenant would be inspecting everything from his command center, twenty-four cameras all relaying back to him and his staff.

"The bridge is intact, so we're going with Variable Charlie, Blacklight," the reply came. That meant moving it to a rendezvous with _Mary Patches_, a cargo container vessel that was outfitted with a crew of men and women from the Central Intelligence Directorate. They would lash up to the vessel, tear it to shreds, and scuttle it when finished.

"Copy that, Mama Duck," Grumman said, and relayed the command, toying through the cargo compartment. Even though it had the appearance of a research vessel, this ship had been largely hulled out to make way for crates. Those crates were being torn open now to reveal stacks of munitions, all of them Osean small arms.

Grumman scanned the walls, noting the Cyrillic writing. Yuktobanian then. "This is a Yuke vessel, smuggling Osean weapons. You feel jittery yet, bubba?" he asked, turning to Toadfoot, his executive. The man nodded, picking an M4 rifle out of a crate.

"This far south, who knows? I don't see why they'd want to smuggle these arms west, especially when the Yukes already have plenty of our small arms. This is puzzling. Most puzzling."

Toadfoot shrugged, replacing the M4. "Maybe, but it's not for us to worry about. Let the _Mary Patches_ do that." Grumman shrugged, but was no less happy. He didn't like part-answers or no-answers, and went through the motions of overseeing his team with half a mind. The other half wondered…what the hell did they just seize?

* * *

**Notes from GobHobblin**: The assault suit is more or less a flight suit, like what a pilot would have. Largely moisture proof and fireproof, units like DAG like to have them when making rapid assaults. The variants they use are also reinforced against tearing.


End file.
